


Blow-Up

by Yavannie



Series: Intermissions [2]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Figuring Sexuality Out, Friendship, Kissing, Mental Instability, Romantic Friendship, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, thoughts about sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-13 01:12:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10503348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yavannie/pseuds/Yavannie
Summary: Focusing onsomething, Betty had learned, was so much better than focusing on nothing. When a restless mind wanders, Big Thoughts inevitably cross its path, and lately, some of her thoughts have been positively huge.Post 1.07 reflection. Relatively canon compliant. While I love that Jughead isaroace in the current comics run, this work is based on the current situation in the TV show so I'm taking it from there. Follows Lady and the Tramp, and I recommend reading that before this.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just about finished this before it gets steamrolled by canon. Not betaed! I'll happily take constructive criticism.

Before, she worked through the night when she couldn’t sleep. Focusing on _something_ , Betty had learned, was so much better than focusing on nothing. When a restless mind wanders, Big Thoughts inevitably cross its path, and lately, some of her thoughts have been positively huge.

 

Now, though, she works through the night to save time. So far, there have been no restrictions on extracurriculars; she imagines her mom lies awake at night, too, weighing the pros and cons of college opportunities versus house arrest. With worse scandals to worry about, Alice Cooper has begrudgingly accepted Betty’s spot on the cheerleading squad, and she can hardly object to her daughter following in her hack writer footsteps. This is where Betty finds her freedom. While the Vixens keep a strict schedule, (and she wouldn’t dream of giving up those hours of agonizing, boob-sweat inducing, blissful torture), working on the school paper doesn’t require a set time and place.

 

Not that her mom needs to know.

 

The story is, cheer practice Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Tuesdays and Thursdays, she spends at the headquarters of The Blue and Gold. And that’s not even technically a lie.

 

She arrives before him today. The office seems gloomier than usual in the failing light of early fall, and she takes a lap of the room to light the lamps. The final one is on the desk, and after switching it on, she sits down and swivels back and forth in the chair for a while. Experimentally, she throws her feet up. She imagines herself as the boss of some big paper. Her pencil becomes a fat cigar, dangling from the corner of her mouth, and she hooks her thumbs into her jean pockets. Would she bark at her writers, or stare them down like mom does? What else does a hot shot editor do? She could call in her secretary, find an excuse to cop a feel. If she had one. _Well…_ Jughead writes things, at least.

 

She thinks about Jughead, and wonders if they’ll ever have sex on this desk. The idea is ridiculous and thrilling and embarrassing all at once. She swaps Jughead for Archie in her mind. It’s a tired old fantasy, and she so unaffected by the imaginary scenario that she can’t even bring herself to feel guilty about it. Then, of course, her mind immediately jumps to wondering if he and Miss Grundy ever did it at school. And that thought is just _sickening_. Firmly, she pushes Archie out of her mental space, and tries to fill it with the person it _should_ be filled with.

 

She still doesn't know exactly how she's supposed to act around him. Some of the couples at school start their mornings glued together in the hall, smacking and slurping and groping the day away. She has to look away, a weird, hot lump burning low in her belly, and she’s not sure whether she's disgusted or turned on. Most of her fellow students at Riverdale wear their relationships as a badge. You _know_ who’s banged and who hasn’t. Well... you pretend you know.

 

With Jughead, she has some kind of understanding. They don't do the whole PDA thing; at least nothing so overt. It creeps into other places, too, makes it hard to get started even when it's just the two of them. Sometimes she’s convinced he kissed her by accident that first time, because he rarely initiates now. And sometimes, she wonders if _she's_ really that into it. The other night, when they had been watching Point Break, she almost felt herself leave her body, hovering above the bed and watching herself snuggled up next to Jughead. They looked sweet together from up there, but she didn't _feel_ anything. And she wanted so badly to feel. Afterwards, when he had kissed her, it had been with some kind of desperate intent, and there she was, an empty shell, devoid of any emotion. _He_ had kissed _her_ again for once, but something about the whole situation just felt _off_. Fake. She chews the inside of her cheek, bites down until her eyes water. Thinking about it is almost painful; thinking about what came after is even worse.

 

Jughead had been virtually comatose in her arms that night, but within Betty, that close embrace had been like flipping a switch. He had seemed so confused and frail, and some weird kind of nurturing instinct had kicked in, and as she snapped back into herself, her synapses suddenly started working overtime. He had been heavy with sleep, pressed firmly against her chest, and she had been wide awake and full of love or lust or whatever it was that made her ache inside.

 

And then, just as now, she’s in a stupid tug-of-war with herself. Is she in love with Jughead, or in love with being in love? Is she holding on to something she wants, or is she just clinging to whatever seems most reasonable?

 

 _Am I crazy?_ She’s asked the question so many times now that it doesn’t even sound exaggerated anymore. Finally, she hears the door creak open.

 

“Betty?”

 

“I'm here.”

 

She decides, more or less on a whim, that she won’t take the first step this time. See how long it takes him. No, she corrects herself. Give him a chance to back away, if that’s what he wants.

 

“Hey,” he says, throwing his bag in a chair. Then he does a double-take, looks at her with that perpetual little half-frown he sports. “What’s up, J. Jonah Jameson? Got any hot scoops to work on, or…”

 

She swings her legs down in what she hopes is a seductive way, then reminds herself that not five seconds ago, she had vowed not to flirt. “Finished it all last night,” she says proudly.

 

“The away loss for the Aquaholics?”

 

“Done.”

 

“New music teacher?”

 

“Done and done.”

 

He snaps his fingers and points at her triumphantly. “The frankly criminally small portions in the cafeteria?”

 

“No, Juggie, that’s just you.”

 

He snorts. “It _can’t_ be just me. But okay, I’ll hand it to you - nice job. Wait, proofreading?”

 

“Veronica.”

 

He shrugs and shoves his hands in his back pockets. “So, why exactly are we here when you keep doing all the work at three in the morning?”

 

“I don’t–”

 

“Betty, I can literally see the light on in your bedroom–”

 

“A- _ha_ , so you’re _also_ awake at three in the morning!”

 

Jughead flashes her a rare smile. “That is _completely_ beside the point, and _also_ also, you’re avoiding the question.”

 

She takes a deep breath, struggles for words. “I thought we could just…” _Have deep, meaningful conversations? Play Space Cadet? Dabble in palmistry? Kiss? For a long time, like a proper make out session? Maybe even–_ She glances at the desk, and feels a blush creeping up her neck. “Hang?” she finishes lamely.

 

He nods, like he approves. “Actually,” he says, turning towards his bag. “I came in early this morning and went down to the darkroom to make a contact sheet…”

 

She had been prepared to feel disappointed that he didn’t take the opportunity to climb her like a tree, but now she’s just confused. “Wait, Riverdale High has a darkroom?”

 

“Uh… Yes?”

 

“And you use actual film in your camera? Also, what year are you from?”

 

From the way he tilts his head she can tell he’s going to give her a lecture. “Betty… Processing is an _artform_. Digital gives you more detail, sure, but there’s an authentic quality to film photography that doesn’t compare to anything else. Silver halide printing is about more than just copying reality. It’s about capturing a _moment_.”

 

“ _Authentic quality?_ ”

 

He avoids meeting her gaze. “Yeah, well, apart from my phone it’s the camera I own, okay?” She feels a pang of guilt that she pressed the point, but he’s already talking again. “So anyway, the contact sheet is from when we searched the woods for Polly, and I noticed something - or rather someone - strange in one of the pictures. And I want to take a closer look.”

 

On the one hand, it sounds like a complete crime TV cliché, but on the other she’s genuinely intrigued, not only by this picture but the fact that there is an real life functioning darkroom in this building that she didn’t know about.

 

An acrid smell lingers in the basement corridor Jughead leads her to. The floors are dusty down here and a light at the end of the hallway flickers ominously. They stop in front of a door that looks more likely to lead into a nuclear war shelter than a darkroom, but Jughead pulls out a sizable keyring and nimbly flips through it. Betty feels herself staring as he picks one and unlocks the door.

 

“Jughead…” He pauses, looks at her questioningly. “You have copies of the school keys?”

 

“Well… Yeah?” he says slowly, and she can hear the silent ‘duh’.

 

“Okay, yes, but why do you _still_ have them?”

 

“To get in here, for starters.” He yanks the door open, just a little too forcefully.

 

“But…”

 

He sighs. “Look, Betty. It's not as if I'm doing anything criminal, okay? All the interesting stuff is in Weatherbee’s office anyway, and there's cameras in there. Your records are perfectly safe. I just… Like to keep my options open.”

 

When he had told her about not living at home... Correction: when they’d been sitting at Pop’s and _Archie_ had hinted and hinted and _hinted_ until Jughead blurted out the whole story himself, Betty had almost felt like doing a Polly. Ask him to run away with her to a better place, any place where their parents wouldn’t be able to find them. But she’s not Polly, and Jughead has a place to stay now, with a reasonable, responsible adult around, no longer the ghost of Harry Potter, haunting the cupboards of their high school. She trusts Archie, trusts Fred Andrews, but she realizes now that Jughead probably can’t afford such luxuries just yet. So she nods, and they enter the darkroom.

 

When the door shuts behind them, the world goes pitch black. Instinct makes her grab for his jacket, and he chuckles, the sound somehow muffled by the darkness. She feels his hand fumbling for hers, and gratefully grabs it, then follows him as he leads her through a short, narrow little maze.

 

“Here,” he says, and she can feel him reaching past her, and a soft click later, everything is washed in red.

 

He walks over to a sink and turns on a tap, then pulls out a folder from his bag and motions at her to join him at a table.

 

“You have to show me how it works,” she says, looking around at everything.

 

“Sure. Let me just find the right negatives…”

 

Betty picks up a plastic sleeve from his pile and holds it up against the light. It’s hard to make out most of the pictures; they’re small and inverted. Most of them seem to be scenes from around the school, but there are portraits as well. She can make out Archie in one of them, and she squints, trying to pinpoint the time and place.

 

“Are these from last year?” she asks.

 

Jughead glances at the sleeve, then points to the date written at the top of it. May 2016.

 

“God, he was so small back then.” She pauses with a frown at the next negative. It’s a half profile, but she can still just about see the familiar ponytail. “Is this me?”

 

“That’s a good one of you,” says Jughead, taking the sleeve and sliding the negative strip out. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

 

A few minutes later, she’s watching herself, inverted in grayscale, projected onto the baseboard of an enlarger. Her eyes are dark and dead with a bright, eerie centre. As per his instructions, she adjusts the focus, then turns off the light. He hands her a narrow strip of paper and makes her expose it bit by bit, three seconds at a time. Then they walk over to the sink, where three large, covered trays are waiting. When he uncovers them, the chemicals smell bad enough to make her cough a little.

 

“You get used to it,” he says. “Put it in.”

 

They’re side by side, watching the strip. After a good few seconds it begins to darken at one end, and soon she can see her own eyes looking back at her from the small piece of paper in a scale that goes from the palest of greys to a deep, dark shade that makes it impossible to see any detail. Jughead picks it up with a pair of tongs and dips it briefly in the the other two trays before rinsing it.

 

“Twelve seconds, maybe?” he says, holding the strip up and pointing to one of the medium shades.

 

“Looks about right,” she agrees, and wishes life would be so easy. _Not too bright, not too dark. Twelve seconds under a lamp and out comes a perfectly balanced Betty Cooper._

 

The picture _is_ a good one, she thinks as they watch the finished photograph swirl around lazily in the rinsing sink. “I don’t remember you taking it,” she says, bumping her shoulder into Jughead’s arm.

 

“Candid pictures are usually better,” he says.

 

A thought strikes her. “Do you have any more of me?”

 

“A few,” he says awkwardly, not meeting her gaze.

 

“None of them indecent, I hope?” she says in a stern voice.

 

He looks shocked. “Jesus, no Betty, I would _never_ …”

 

“Jughead, I’m _joking_.” He lets out an explosive sigh, and then they both burst out laughing. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s do the one we actually came down here for.”

 

Jughead brings out the contact sheet. “This is the one,” he says, pointing to one of the miniatures. It’s a picture of Veronica, Valerie and Kevin walking along a forest trail and, some distance behind them, a third girl. Betty leans in closer. She has short, blonde hair, and Betty is almost certain she’s never seen her before.

 

“Who _is_ that?”

 

“Right. That’s what I was thinking.”

 

He handles this one, and he works with the quick ease of someone completely in his element. As she watches him, she feels that overwhelming heat again. A little shiver goes through her, and all the things she’s imagined doing with him, with Archie, with other guys, they all bubble up and flood her chest. They’ve been together in a dark, cramped room for half an hour and they haven’t even _kissed_ yet. She draws a stuttering breath. _Why am I like this? Why_ isn’t _he like this?_

 

She walks over to him as he drops the picture into the first tray. “Juggie…” she says, reaching out to touch his back.

 

He jumps as though he’s been electrocuted. “Shit, you scared me,” he says with a little laugh, turning around. Then he frowns. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Do you like me?” The words just kind of tumble out, and she cannot _believe_ she’s doing this again. This exact same thing, setting herself up for disappointment again using the exact same words.

 

“ _What?_ ” He sounds almost offended.

 

“I mean, do you actually _like_ me.” She can feel herself squirming nervously and she hates it.

 

“Yeah, I actually _like_ you. Isn’t that obvious?”

 

Now she feels stupid. “Okay, but… The other night…”

 

He steps close, interrupts her by gently grabbing her shoulders. “Betty, I…” and for a moment she thinks he’s about to use the _other_ L-word. Instead, he leans in to kiss her, and she almost wants to sob with relief. Her arms find their way around his waist, and his breath is hot and sweet against her lips. Her doubts seem to fade, the tight knot in her belly uncoils, and when she presses even closer, she can feel him smile into their next kiss.

 

“I _like_ this,” he says softly.

 

“Okay,” she says, and she believes him. But then, because she apparently can’t stop torturing herself, she goes on. “I just felt like something was _off_ that night, and then we haven’t even kissed for days, and–”

 

He draws back a little, looking apprehensive, almost scared. “I’m sorry,” he says.

 

“Why do you keep saying that?”

 

“I don’t know. I…” he stops himself. “I’m just an idiot sometimes, okay? Maybe even most of the time...”

 

“That’s not even remotely true.”

 

“...but trust me when I say that being with you is _everything_.”

 

She pulls him down towards her until their foreheads touch. “Okay,” she whispers, and their lips touch again, feather light and quick, kiss after kiss. Then she freezes. “Wait, the picture.”

 

They move over to the trays, and by now the blow-up is almost a little too dark, but they can see the unfamiliar girl clearly. Betty frowns.

 

“What was she doing there? And why didn’t we notice her? I have never seen her before in my life.”

 

Jughead, on the other hand, is looking at the photograph like he’s just seen a ghost. “I know her,” he says finally. “I went to this party last year, and she was there. She’s from Greendale.”


End file.
